Sometimes
When the world is overwhelming
And the macrocosm is too much to bear
You discover the microcosm
And serendipity
Arrowhead
Sand and rocks crunch beneath my feet as
I linger on the shores of the lake,
This ancient lake whose shores once teemed
with brown feet, unconstricted feet
walking the shore,even as I am, searching...
A glint of shiny black
and my hand gently pries it from between two
other rocks.
Obsidian?
Yes. I wash off all the sand and realize
it is an arrowhead, a perfectly cut arrowhead.
Who knows how old?
It fits in the palm of my hand
as if it wants to be there.
My palm holds it gently
as my fingers follow its contours
marvelling at the hardness of it, and the
smoothness
my fingers follow its edges,
the way it curves and then flares out
to make the tip.
I rub it with my thumb
then rub it across my cheek
and lips,
feeling its coolness
and yet its heat,
forged once from within
a volcano
then by human hands
then here unnoticed...
for how long?
fifty years?
one hundred?
three hundred?
I should probably leave it here
But I can't.
And so I tuck it inside my levis
and feel it warm to the touch of my skin.
s.m.chisam
Autumn Equinox
Autumn's morn blazes center stage,
Sable curtains lightening to a rage
Of gold and scarlet, lightning flashing,
Thunder blaring, percussion crashing.
The suseration of the rain
Taps against my window pane,
Fills the forest floor with leaves,
Then plays timpani from my eaves.
Then, once again the trumpets blast
As sun's gold rays last shadows cast
And velvet darkness spreads and grows
To its sable curtain close.
smchisam90
Can You Touch the Wind?
Can You Touch the Wind?
Can you read the sky?
Do you know the man in the moon?
Do you know why
the yellow swallowtail
never comes too soon?
Can you pass by a deer in a meadow
And not have it run away;
If it came up and started talking
Would you understand what it would say?
If you know the meaning of a moonbeam
And can hum the ladybug song,
Then you can walk a sure path
on a night without stars
and you are what I'm trying to become.
s.m.chisam-July 95
Classical Gas
Hale-Bopp did a be-bop
one night when the moon was full,
when Aries was in the heavens,
along with Taurus the bull.
It streaked across the midnight sky;
so slowly it did pass,
that we all had a chance to get up and dance
as it played its classical gas.
s.m.chisam-April 97
Dragon Clouds
Once I watched a sunset of many colors by the sea.
For some reason, it wasn�t as bright as I thought it should be.
Where were the prancing unicorns,
Pearly white with golden horns,
That the poets have always shown to me?
There were no purple flowers, no rippling blue streams,
Only flames of red and orange, like dragons in my dreams.
Dark gray thunderclouds filled my sight
And turned the world from day to night.
Now I�m scared, for nothing is what it seems.
The dragon in the clouds laughed with an evil sound,
And his flashing eyes sent lightning dancing all around.
He sent the rain to fill the streets.
His evil plan was quite complete.
Until he heard one frightened child cry.
Then suddenly, to my surprise, the darkness went away.
The sunlight streaked through purple clouds and turned the night to day.
Golden angels were blowing horns.
And look! There be the unicorns!
And then the dragon, crying, sadly slipped away.
3/24/97 by Jessica Chisam and Susan Chisam
Earthquake
A rumble...is it? Yes,
It is an earthquake! I guess
I should warn the kids. The hall
Is hurling me from wall to wall.
A cacophony assaults my ears.
My son cries out. Is he close to tears?
No, he's uninjured. As I pass his door
I view him scrambling across the floor
To safety. My toddler, eyes staring wide,
Is so frightened that she hasn't cried.
She clings to me as I lift her
From her bed, and reassure her
And my son...as the jolting stops...
That we're all safe. The aftershocks
Send us back to the shelter of the hall.
As I sweep up the glass, I consider all
The things to do at a time like this.
One child is at school. My husband's away
At work. First, we prayed. I checked
The gas and water meters, and searched for our pets.
Did the radio announce any more on it yet?
A construction worker killed somewhere, they say.
Oh, Lord...my husband's working up that way.
Don't let it be him. The high school kids seem
Alright. Is this a dream?
Back to routine things. Don't worry.
It's not as bad as it seems. Don't hurry.
The phone won't work. I go outside
And check to see if my neighbors are alright.
My son's ready for school, and wants to go.
I'm worried, but try not to let it show.
My little one finally decides to eat.
As she settles in her seat
I tell her if there's another shake
To drop under the table; just drop and wait,
And I will come. The table top
Trembles. She leaps to my arms, and we drop
And stay there until the rumbling subsides,
But she's had enough, and finally...
She cries.
s.m.chisam
In Bright Meadows
We walk in bright meadows
Filled with blossoms and butterflies
Illuminated by the moon
And then sun-drenched in turn
And the deer look up as we pass
But they are not afraid
For they know
That we know
The way of the woods
And I walked in the valleys
But your spirit called to mine
And it ever lifts me
Words to words
Heart to heart
Soul to soul
You lift me
And I you
As we learn
Ancient rhythms
And we dance in the meadow
Of this time and this place
And we learn the ways of these woods
s.m.chisam
Painting in the Afternoon Sun
Lightly sketching in some lines...
the far indigo hills
Nokometa, red-blood mountain
the curving lines of the road at the junction
Now to paint...
it has been so long, too long...
with a wide flat brush
layer whites and then blues sparkling like the eyes of a friend
then the indigo ridge - a smaller pointed brush,
twisting it flicking lightly here and there for the tree-line;
filling in the purples and blue of the other ridge,
with a sponge, about silver dollar size with
the varied hues of the lava rock on my palette,
then lightly feathering and smoothing the edges with
a small brush dipped in maize and white...
no detail just color...
then the greens, a whole palette of them...
verdigris, heather, emerald, olive, avocado......
forming oaks then pines, then chaparral,
staccato darker black or brown for limbs or trunk
confronting the canvas with the trees, giving them dimension.
Then the closer trees glimpsed between the hills...
slanting sunlight coming through,
working quickly with the brush,
giving a hint of layers of leaves then wide brush again,
dipped in a mix of lava red and maize and white,
then the smallest brush...no, not that one yet...
I put it back down and eye the other brushes...
the long thin flexible one,
flicking it to form the tall grasses in shadow, form, and light,
the cinnamon making the shaded shoots
the lighter colors the sun-drenched ones
Then the smallest brush, dipped in both maize and white,
feathering the tops of the grass shoots.
Now, to gesso the canvas.....
-Susan (19)
Revenge of the North Wind
I blew and blew
but the trees fought back
while I tore branches off
one by one in the bitter cold.
Each time I stopped to catch my breath
they straightened up again
with all the arrogance of youth
. But I, older than they,
waited the long season,
and as they reached up to catch
the warmth of the spring sun,
I hit the oldest tree in the forest
and snapped it off at the roots.
1989
Secret of the Emerald Dawn
Ethereal pre-dawn light paints an enchanted scene
sweeping strokes of deep emerald pigment,
touches of silver and sable,
brushed softly upon the canvas,
the dark gesso background of night.
A soft susseration in the upper canopy
awakens baby aspen leaves,
and stirs the still waters of the stream.
The rising warmth penetrates the chill morning air,
and so we step quietly into liguid emerald water,
slipping silently into shoulder-depth,
watching with wide-open wonder how
the slow-moving ripples bring us
gold and green reflections from the other side.
Old Sol sends us a gift of morning sunbeams with which to play,
and we smile in shared delight
as they dance around the shadowed bark of the aspens,
turning them sparkling white.
Their bright white light shimmers
between the green velvet and gold satin in the liquid depths,
and we languidly swim this path towards the far shore.
It is but a short distance, that far shore,
and so we stroke slowly across the wavering white lines,
our bodies catching the tesselation of
white to green to gold to black to green
as the silky smooth river water caresses our skin.
We rise from the water on that far shore,
surrounded by a veil of silent steam,
the dancing sunbeams playing on our faces
as we gaze at the dream-like scene surrounding us.
Until this moment,
we had thought that all dawns had a golden hue.
smchisam 1999
Sky Traveller
Sky Traveler, patrolling the heavens
adrift on giant wings
predator/protector
your piercing eyes searching my soul
spreading your warmth within my loins
wishing I could walk with you
yet knowing
that the intensity of your heat
would scorch my spirit
beyond recognition
smc 97
Summers
Summers here are hot
But you can drift along in a canoe
The water�s down lower
And the creeks run slower
And the grebes�ll do a dance for you
Eagles soar over the marshland,
heron hides his nest in a tree.
Just lie on your back,
let your mind go slack,
And feel eternity.
smc 1993
Vernal Equinox
Woke up to the snap crackle patter splatter
of silver rain skipping off the edges of the leaves,
sounding like hundreds of tiny forest elves
excitied
They know.
The forest resounds with the quiet echo:
"She's coming! She's almost here!"
And I join the race,
up and over and around the shower-drenched, new-scented forest floor,
piled thick under mosses and dripping with winter lichen,
along a corridored canopy of ageless wrinkle-barked trees
with fresh soft new-life peridot leaves tilting shifting
as they herald the sun
and the return
of the lady.
Jumpng now, unable to contain our joy,
leaping, scampering, racing up and over the slippery slopes,
racing to be first to the
lily pad fringed meadowlands of
stepped overflowing pools and
rocky cascading falls,
where all the elven clans are gathering
for the reemergence
the rebirth
the reawakening
of their Lady.
Spring 98 s.m.chisam
White Heron in Winter
A flash of white --
sun on sleek feathers --
and I knew the white heron was there
that winter afternoon,
fishing in the golden tules
along the northern lake shore.
I drove past
so I would not startle him
and end a magic moment
before it could begin.
A flash of white --
sun on sleek metal --
My car door quietly opened
even more quietly closed,
and I was out,
camera in hand,
crossing the gray asphalt roadway
while my eyes scanned back
along the gray lake shore
where the rays of the
late winter afternoon sun
painted a scene of liquid silver
with long dark gray shadows.
I quietly took
one
step
at a time
along the old low gray stone wall,
the only thing besides distance
separating me from
the silver lake
and the golden tules
and the white heron.
His head came up --
his long neck angled up and
his eyes caught mine and held them
measuring the distance between us
as I slowly approached.
A swish of the water below me
and I looked for
perhaps
a large fish in the shallows
but a sleek, small dark body
worked its way further shoreward
and, to my great delight,
a young beaver lifted his head
then his front paws and upper body
out of the silky water
to investigate something
on the shore.
Smiling at the serendipity of the moment,
I stayed my steps and watched
for many heartbeats, then
I cautiously ventured closer
to the elegant white heron,
closer
closer
finally too close and
his huge wings spread and beat the air
in a slow percussive movement
and he lifted from the tules
and winged his way out over the liquid silk
of the lake in a slow circle.
1/3/99 by Susan M. Chisam
Nature Poetry Directory
fe-smc 2000